thdilettante

[thdilettante]

Keanu Reeves as Don John

in Much Ado About Nothing 1993

[thdilettante]

starter for @truedevotions

Another month had been survived, and wasn’t that cause for celebration? Donned in velvet and trimmed with golden thread, he had rode by his wife’s side, his dark eyes surveying the road for any sign of highwaymen or any such animal that may wander into their path. Still, the journey had been easily made, and so Thomas had guided his wife to their chambers which were not unlike the ones kept at Hampton, but which seemed riddled with the ghosts of her past life. Everywhere he turned were echoes of Henry Tudor and his father, everywhere he went he saw people he knew back when he had been but an ambassador and supporter of the ascension of the Boleyn family.

But Thomas had never been the type of man to linger in the past, and so instead he indulged in spiced wine and sweet almond pastries, making merry with the councillors who were also award a fine break from the atmosphere of serious conversation and the shadow of the legitimacy of that de Medici token. Sipping at his cup, he made merry with all around him, including the Percy fold who had long since supped at the position previously taken by his wife’s brood. Having met then and again through Anne, Thomas bowed his head and gestured for someone to approach in order to fill Isabel Percy’s up, his good cheer plainly coloured upon his face. “Ah, we are so lucky to have two Percy daughters find comfort in these walls. Where would we be without them? How did you find the journey?”

[thdilettante]

Had he loved her when he had been a boy, so unmarked by the world and yet so joyous to take every second beneath his greed — he would’ve taken her indeed, placing them at court no matter what to nourish their prestige and beauty that was worthy to her entire being. Perhaps, if he had been allowed to name her as his wife, then he wouldn’t have been a sinner in the eyes of his peers, a faithless man who had left a newborn babe and his mother to the mercy of her own household. Then what off the mistress? Taken into his home despite his marital status, her pleasure mixed with three fatherless sons who had all but one died in the youth of their lives — the only living, then refusing to take the name of Wyatt. How different it would’ve been. Perhaps he and Anne could’ve had their own family at Allington Castle, a bevy of children littering the halls, their fortunes tied with… well, whoever then ran Hampton Court. 

Though another type of man may have felt yearning or hurt for being separated from such a fantasy, Thomas was content to be in that moment, to have his lips flush against her skin, to unravel the decadent material was to open a world of possibilities. He would enjoy her attention like a puppy within a new home, his nose flush against the warmth of her neck, his hands greedy with insistence as they groped at her thighs, as he felt the warmth embed against his skin. For there was not another who rivalled the intensity of Anne Boleyn, her skin alone a silk-finished presentation, a form of Galatea sculpted alongside the wise head of Athena. No, she was no woman, she was a Goddess. “Do not punish me,” he murmured, then shitting his weight between her legs, his knees pressed into the luxury of her bed, his eyes then narrowed as he traced lace complexities against her knee, his smile drifting upon his face in the same way a babe grinned in its sleep. “For to punish is to keep your own pleasure at bay — and that, I would not wish for the world,” his words slurred against the fat lick of his tongue, the tone dripping from his lips in the same way honey slipped from the spoon. 

If Henry lurked then, cast to the eternal punishment of walking the world unseen, Thomas wouldn’t have cared. For how could he love a man who had been bred to fight when the poet had been but a lover forced to thread a certain path? There was no infidelity in this act, though perhaps if the court were aware of their consummation (of which, was barely needed, for their mature age would not create another child) they would look down upon the two aged lovers, but Thomas took her nonetheless, lowering himself to her heat, hoisting the weight of her thighs over his broad shoulders as he kissed her sweet core, his poet tongue suddenly full all too grand. “To love you is a dangerous thing, but I would go to the tower happy if I could but only kiss your sweet lips,” he whispered, the words slurred before he buried himself before her — his ears pressed against the heat of her thighs, her own answers eloquent and well mastered far too muffled to truly respond without his own tongue already well used to her body. 

With a hum, his fingers drawing deep into the excess of her thighs, Thomas ignored all sentiment of her royal child, of the King who sat above them in gilded prophecy, but rather thought only to her desire — his head shaken by her want. With pride he sung her song to the tune of a singing bird, his own need as vivid and unquenched as ever. “Mmm — some part of me… is glad… to have you now… rather than before…” He muttered, his lips busied before he drew himself up to look at his wife, his eyes darkened by shadows, by the light that flickered from dancing flames. “For I would never have made such a life for myself, I would be but your concubine instead — I would be nothing but for you.”

   His service had become Anne's duty - his pain, her suffering - his relief, her hope - his high regard, her reward. She could have forgotten the fields, the sea, an ever changing sky outside of this chamber - Anne was almost content to forget it. All within her, narrow to this lot. Her appetite needed no more than tiny messes served; all the things Thomas had, she clung to. Tame still by habit, disciplined harshly by destiny; with these things still, she had crawled on with her love for him for thirty years; long, had Anne Boleyn wished to compromise with fate. Thomas had become her world - her love, her friend, her all.   When she had first known his love, dark in the shadow of the dead King, what an existence she had enjoyed; what a glorious year, she could now recall. From that year on, her heart lived with Thomas; perhaps so much better than she, his standard in all things so much brighter. Scores of women had suffered as cattle in his loss; few women had enjoyed what she had, in his love. No more did Anne have doubts about him; it was such a love honoured and protected.Even the ignorants of Spain would know he was beautiful; they too wonder ponder, perplexed with desires -- how could a man who charmed so much, in the same breathe, so keenly pain. Long ago, Anne's heart had nearly died with her; miserable longings of Thomas Wyatt, his smile lighting up women's countenances across the countenance, strained its chords miserably.  

She had little time to reminisce because he brought his lips to her mouth, a warm conciliatory kiss. Upon the consummation of their long-awaited love, Anne had wished to hide everything about herself in their kiss; passion affords one the ability to hide. Much the same now, she wanted him to take her, molt her, turn her inside out - until she was one in the same, with his lust. Anne watched his face now; his expression at once both flushed, acquiescent, that it tore every emotion out of her.     She wanted to preserve the turbulent gasp in his voice as he delivered his soliloquy; for it to linger with her for days, and to tell her she could stake her entire life on this, and leave the rest. "You know there is no greater incentive to my desires, then your sweet words - should I punish you, for inspiring me to such wanton things? Or perhaps I best guard you; have you not heard, to love me is a dangerous thing?"  At once her cunt was bared, not a secret left in the world; to do this with him in her previous marital bed, would have been the only bearable transgression. It was wonderful, to feel his hands all over her; she loved to be naked before him. The hopes dear to youth, she had dared to know; she accepted the sermon now -- the frowns, the sneers that accompanied it. No longer, did Anne fear the sin and weakness of presumption; let them talk. 

    She loved the salt of his arms, his broad shoulders, the ridges of his spine so new, despite being wholly known; Anne wished for no walls, no secrets to last between them. In Henry's shadow, Anne had been forced to muse if intimacy could endure, once our bodies ran out of new tricks - when indecency, had been throughly spent. Perhaps one would never know; but Anne knew she was more safe and free with Thomas that she had ever been in her life -- that she had nothing left, to hide from him. "I believe my love, that it shall never be in any of our natures to be done with anything; forgotten? Neither admired nor reviled? We would never suffer such a death -- let Mary's pronouncement of me as Mistress Wyatt, serve as a reminder of that. But our kin, shall never grant us rest - but William remarked upon you fondly, last we spoke. Have you been courting his good opinion?"" She was never so pliant with Henry; she allowed herself now to be folded back, so wholly undone by the merest of touches. Anne's breath was no longer her own -- a slick, wanting, needy little thing commanded her lungs. Laying back, she lifted both legs over his shoulders; she had craved him, and could no longer live without him. "Thomas." She wished for him to bring his lips to where he'd promised to return them; she ached, she stretched against his fingers, she desired clemency. 

[thdilettante]

Marguerite Welles was Anne’s ward, and had been for a long time. Thomas, for having been a player at court for far longer than the ward had been alive, had seen her from time to time but simply as an addition to Anne’s bevy of beautiful women from both old and new age — how was he meant to have assumed that she would remain beneath Anne’s roof for years to come, till he himself had been offered the hand of his one true love. Then, as was the custom, he had grown to know her personally, though clearly refrained from the same sentiments he had tried to explore with William and Elizabeth — one being much easier to please than the other, who remained cold and distant to his tokens of good faith. Meeting Meg at that Pageantry, Thomas smiled and extended his warmth as was his usual demeanor. “Cyrene, Cyrene. When will we find you an Apollo of good faith? It is time, don’t you think? That you find a husband and good family of your own making? You have all it takes, Marguerite, that I am sure,” he grinned — breaking the space between them. “Let me see… There is a Dudley, a German, Frenchmen — even a Boleyn!” @ladymegwelles

[thdilettante]

Before the throws of the court, before the grand spectacle that came with this pageant of merry faces doomed to sow stories all of their own, Thomas sat at the table with his wife in a public display of familial grandeur. With William and Elizabeth also playing their part as deities that could very well blind the entire court with their grandeur, Thomas felt quite content. If only, one inkling thought nagged at him, he could’ve been reunited with his one living son, but that was for another day — one of which was not soaked in the giddy glee of the royal court. With William’s return, and no cause for worry, Thomas played the part of gratuitous host and humble consort, his hand yet carved over Anne’s beneath the table as not to annoy the Princess, whom he had not quite had warm over him despite his many, uncalled for efforts. 

Leaning into his wife’s side, he whispered, his hand then shifting to her garment and the peacock feathers that had been plucked from the bird in order to signify the Queen of the Gods. “Your ghosts sculpt mine memories, I am all that I was during your captivity. You persist, you greedily accumulate… With each name, I step back, I invoke you and I return,” he whispered, it being some snippet he had read, though would probably claim as his own. “Your children look magnificent, my love. A beloved family with adored subjects. You must feel such pride, dearest Hera.” @semperanneboleyn

[thdilettante]

There never were two unlikely fellows such as they who met nose to nose beneath the glamour of the Greek Pageant, a friendship forged through escapades upon foreign lands, trust built on experience and dire need, Thomas Wyatt went to Charles Butler in the same way as he had always done — despite his still new, gilded position as Boleyn’s husband. Though, if he were to listen to his inner demise, was he not but a lap dog put on trial before the council found some reason for him to be removed? Well, even if that was the case, Thomas was in a fever for life’s worth, often ignoring the sleight of rumour or danger in order to wax lyrics to his wife, to his step-children and finally to his bundle of friends. When approached, Thomas lifted his arms to embrace Charles, his sing-song escapade fortunate to witness. 

“How that fire warms, forged. Tools comfort, enable. Utile as physics, reason & the average! Never sought, bulwark against child-based instruction —” he called, wavering from side to side. “As if molecules & virtues perform for the naked eye, reason reduced to the refutation of old testimonials!” Taking Charles’ shoulders, he held him apart from himself, his smile as glad to see him as if he were reunited with the sons he had lost. “Ah, my Lord. How pleasing it is to see you here, and as the God’s Hammer himself! Shall I show you my thunderbolts? Anne had them crafted for theatrics, but I do not know what to do with them. So have one as some token of our friendship.” @charlesbutler

[thdilettante]

As the night drew on, the recitals and speeches drawing to a close from the mouths from the fair ladies of court, Thomas had itched to join them on stage. For his life’s spirit, his very soul, seemed unsatisfied by playing the audience when he could spill forth with the poems that had emboldened his being, the published and the rejected, the sentences and full stanzas laying dormant in his books — so, before long, he found himself a place among the last luls of celebration, a hand put to his chest as he recalled something by Aeschylus.

“O’Zeus,” he began, “who’ever thou be, if that name please thee well, by that I call on thee, for weighing all things else I fail to tell, of any name but Zeus, if once for all I seek — of all my haunting, troubled thoughts a truce, that name I still must speak,” he performed, his eyes alight with pride, though his audience seemed of a scant quality compared to the one hushed together to have watched the women. Whilst collecting himself, he met the eye of a man he knew in some manner. A husband to a niece of his wife, perhaps. As he settled on the costume, with his eyes flared with another stanza, he approached, his smile wide and welcoming as he himself stood tall in his Zeus-like appearance. 

“Here was the wondrous mine of souls, like silent silver ore they moved, in veins through its darkness… Among roots… The blood welled up that flows to the humans, something as heavy as porphyry in the dark. Nothing else was red!” He exclaimed, a hand put to his heart, his attention then sought. “A poem for Orpheus! And where is your fair Eurydice?” Thomas asked. @cxvxndish

[thdilettante]

Thomas’ smile was innocent, perhaps even proud, but it was not tainted with a special understanding. No, he had often thought to smother a good soul in sweetness than turn sour to a day’s expense. Though he could not quite imagine anyone turning their attention from the Prince of Spain, who would one day become a King in his own right — then, he could not help but think of his father and what he had once thought would come of his only living son’s future. Never had he have thought that such a boy would become so close to royal blood, that throb of Midas’ touched veins within touching distance — to write poetry, to lounge before a hearth with pen in hand, was surely the only justification of Thomas’ survival from the months spent in damp cages at the hand of the Emperor, or when his escape from Rome was finally made with success. 

He sniggered, a casual flair donning his hand as he brought his palm to his chest, his smile wide but lazy as he looked to the son of Mary Tudor, the woman whom he really only remembered as a girl when displayed around Hampton as the treasure of England before the ambition of his dearest wife. “Oh, I think everyone could do with a short walk around the Castle to lighten one’s mood. I fear my King and your Queen will come to blows over the great matter, if you catch my drift, and why? When a grand reunion of family is to be had?” Thomas asked without really waiting for an answer as he walked alongside the Prince, holding his hands then behind his back, his journal slipped behind his cloak of trimmed fur. “Sonnets, always my Lord! I leave documentation to the one’s without art in their soul… Why waste time on something that I have no love for? You must know what I mean, what with being so young and cherished by your people… And what a difference it is, from Iberia to Albion.”

amidst  the  constant  rotation  of  foreign  guests  that  clamored  over  each  other  in  their  haste  to  greet  the  prince  of  asturias  and  possibly  entreat  him  into  conversation,  felipe  had  been  forced  to  nurse  a  goblet  of  watered  down  wine  as  the  shift  between  languages  and  faces  with  each  new  introduction  squeezed  more  attention  from  him  like  a  leather  belt  being  tightened  around  the  head.  as  easy  as  it  would  have  been  to  depend  on  the  skills  of  the  translator  that  had  been  assigned  to  shadow  his  every  step,  he  had  been  determined  to  exhibit  the  lessons  that  had  been  imparted  upon  him  since  childhood,  navigating  the  coarse  english  tongue  and  the  swallowed  french  pronunciations  until  he  was  able  to  slip  away  from  his  father's  councilors  who  now  served  as  diplomats,  ambassadors  and  glorified  watchmen  over  the  prince  and  princess  of  spain.  out  of  respect  for  their  efforts,  felipe  did  not  venture  too  far  from  their  eyeline,  braving  the  elements  and  the  narrow  steps  that  led  up  to  the  ramparts  where  he  was  greeted  by  a  familiar  face,  shrouded  in  myth  and  scandal  in  madrid  but  otherwise  a  seeming  gentleman  by  the  side  of  the  english  royal  family.

❝  my  lord.  ❞  uttered  with  an  inclination  of  the  head,  the  prince  strode  forth  upon  invitation,  hands  clasped  behind  his  back  as  he  took  in  the  figure  that  thomas  wyatt  cut  among  the  skies  with  no  small  hint  of  appreciation.  a  huff  of  amusement  escaped  his  throat,  misting  in  the  air  before  him  as  he  turned  his  gaze  down  in  acknowledgment,  boyish  mischief  lightening  the  dark  scrutiny  of  his  gaze.  ❝  it  would  bring  me  no  greater  delight,  sir.  as  fond  as  i  am  of  learning  the  art  of  diplomacy  from  the  veiled  barbs  through  pinched  smiles  that  i  have  witnessed  thus  far,  i  fear  that  the  quick  shift  between  languages  has  stirred  quite  an  ache  in  my  head.  i  would  welcome  any  advice  or  proposed  remedy  that  you  might  be  kind  enough  to  share.  ❞  the  cool  air  had  done  wonders  in  clearing  his  thoughts,  however,  allowing  his  sights  to  sharpen  on  the  leatherbound  journal  held  to  the  side  of  the  earl.

❝  do  you  still  write  sonnets,  my  lord,  or  have  your  words  taken  a  more  historical  recollection  ?  ❞

[thdilettante]

THOMAS WYATT as ZEUS

King of the Gods, God of the sky, lightning, thunder, law and order

Unlike many others, the role of Zeus was assigned to the Dowager's husband because, quite plainly, she had been given the role of Hera. As Queen of the Gods, she ruled the court with the temper of ancient beings, and so in turn, Wyatt stepped into the fray as a willing consort. Having always been theatrical, Thomas adorned himself in red and white, linens and silks draped from his body with a single peacock feather tucked into against his breast in a sign of fidelity to his quasi-Queen. Engorged with pleasure to the evening's burning spirit, Thomas walked around court proclaiming poetry that passed through Ancient lips, throwing quotes from Ovid and Homer between gulps of aged wine with a merriment that would've almost been contagious, if it was not for his blossoming ego. But, he always returned to the Dowager in the same way an adventurous pup would run without thought.

With his chest almost bare, his arms flexed beneath a robe that seemed almost lurid for an older man to wear, Thomas embodied the grandeur that came with his play-acting. But nonetheless, nothing could deter him. Drunk on the ceremony, he applauded with thunderous hurrah, a champion perhaps to the coy maidens who had been pushed into the spotlight - one hand against his wife's, the other busy scrawling snippets of aching poetry. Perhaps, if he was lucky, then he would be allowed to write once more, to publish something not concerning the crown but instead the ever wavering soul. As Zeus, he could not help but feel his own worth.

[thdilettante]

Greek Mythology Moodboards // Zeus

If once for all I seek of all my haunting, troubled thoughts a truce, that name I still must speak.

[thdilettante]

He had never been good at keeping to serious, astute conversation. For Thomas Wyatt, life was what you made it, and so he was not about to waste time moaning upon what was to happen to their glorified English court. By all means, what was there to worry about? William had allies if one was to look just a little closer to the political table — and though Thomas was no agent with a mind for the ages, his advice was sage-like in terms of comfort or rehabilitation, and so would remain in the secondary ranks to receive his step-son in a time of need. After all, Thomas had his own links upon the continent — France, Spain, Italy… If there was the need for sudden escape, or refuge at all, then he may just find a use to his past misdeeds. 

He had then spent his return to Hampton buried in the alcoves of the feasting halls, where he performed scribbled lines and sonnets pertaining to the nature that had left Thomas suddenly in feverish want of the roaming seascape they sat upon. Only when he had finished, his soul unburdened from the thoughts that had since plucked at his heartstrings during the summit away from court, could the poet finally unwind to take stock of what had been lost. In his youth, he had travelled almost constantly on the order of the late King — whilst as an ambassador, he had been a prisoner of war, a precious guest and even a lover to many easy women — and had since had his full of adventure. Or so, he had thought. 

Upon meeting the young Lady, Thomas paused, the dark glint of his gaze following her movements as he caught the face of the book she cradled. Flattered, if only to inflate his own ego, Thomas’ grin moved of its own accord, his approach joyous before taking to her side, gesturing towards the book. “Ah, yes! Songes and Sonnettes, 1557… How do you find it?” He then asked as he tried to make sense of who the young woman before him was — by the shade of her hair and the fall of her mouth, he assumed she was cut from the Percy cloth, a younger sister perhaps to that boy who was friendly with William. 

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒. closed for @thdilettante 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. the libraries of hampton court palace 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄 & 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄. 17 november 1559, noontime

their  florentine  escapade  seemingly  ended  as  soon  as  it  had  began.  just  as  she  was  acclimating  herself  to  morning  sunlight  beams  piercing  through  the  scant  window  upon  sarah's  plump  cheeks,  the  white  cliffs  of  dover  welcomed  the  small  retinue  home  across  the  horizon.  the  carriage  ride  happened  almost  in  a  daze;  the  council  spent  most  of  it  discussing  amongst  themselves,  the  air  serious  and  dire.  though  what  they  spoke  of  was  clearly  personal  in  nature.  sibella  had  never  been  acquainted  like  this  with  a  council  member  that  was  not  already  of  her  kin,  so  she  could  not  accurately  attach  faces  to  the  names  they  spoke  of  so  intimately  and  urgently.  yet  her  own  thoughts  were  squarely  focused  on  her  siblings,  of  how  she  must  betray  their  closeness  and  keep  this  information  close  to  her  heart.  but  she  could  not  express  her  woes  to  the  three  men  before  her.  she  could  not  forget  that  these  three  men  still  authorized  the  death  of  her  most  beloved.

she  was  not  usually  a  woman  filled  with  so  many  secrets.  at  least,  none  such  as  this.  it  confounded  her  how  she  found  the  councilmen  at  dinner  the  previous  night,  eating  their  fill  and  jolly  as  ever.  she,  too,  would  try,  but  none  had  ever  accused  her  of being  an  actress.  soon  enough  she  found  herself  in  her  old  routine,  neglecting  such  feasts  so  that  she  may  scour  the  king's  libraries  for  a  text  she  had  not  yet  read.  rarely  did  she  happen  upon  such  a  text,  ultimately  plucking  a  book  by  its  spine.  she  unfurled  it  in  her  arms,  yet  her  mind  distracted  her  as  her  eyes  scanned  over  its  words,  oblivious  to  the  sound  of  footsteps  behind  her.  "my  lord  allington,"  she  exclaims  in  half-whisper,  startled  by  his  presence.  "my  apologies,  i  had  not  seen  you  enter  the  room.  i  was,"  she  peers  down  at  the  pages,  a  humoured  sigh  escaping  her.  songes  and  sonnettes,  read  the  top  of  the  page.  "reading.  one  of  yours,  i  believe."

[thdilettante]

HOUSE WYATT

Despite first impression, the Wyatt family name stretches far back into the legions of history, and has often taken a fine position in the halls of court. Thomas, who's older brother died young and sister married into the Lee family, was suspected to be just the same. Through good luck and genuine charisma, he was made an ambassador, a fine courtier and by all means, a prisoner. To some, not much has changed, even if he was chosen to be the new husband of the eternally famous Anne Boleyn. Elizabeth Brooke was his first wife, a marriage arranged without love or even true understanding. As soon as she fell pregnant, Thomas took various jobs to travel abroad as an ambassador to the English King, sowing wild oats in Spain, France, Germany and Italy as he went. Upon his escape from prison under the watch of the Holy Roman Emperor, Thomas took a mistress as his common-law wife, despite his surviving spouse. With Elizabeth Darrell, he had three sons, two died young whilst one remained - all taking their mother's family name.

And though luck had always shined upon his head, it seemed that the wheel had finally changed. Upon the death of Brooke, Darrell quickly followed before then being joined by the death of his first and only legitimate child. As Boleyn's second husband, he has since informally adopted her two offspring with the late kind as his step-children (William and Elizabeth), and despite general opinion, Thomas does not lure for the throne, but rather offers his comfort and advice, whilst writing his sonnets and lines despite the shaken earth they sit upon.

A formal family free is found here.

[thdilettante]

His embrace was immediate, his hands caught around the cusp of her thighs that lay beneath such thick, decadent skirts. When he had been caught between the tremor of lust and the sweetness of a giant, Thomas Wyatt had looked at Anne as if she were the one thing any such man would want in their life. Of course, he had not been the only one, for she always had her own bevy of handsome and landed men to pick from when she had first made an appearance in that old English court. Surely, too, she had her own audience at the French one in turn, causing all manner of men to weep to their knees in vassalization. And though pride had played a part in the answer when the proposition had been talked about between men who thought to tame the Dowager’s wild heart, it seemed more something of the soul, something unfinished or unvarnished. And who was Wyatt, but a poet who wished to soak himself in everything that the world had on offer? With she in his arms, his head lulling forward to kiss the perfumed skin of her swan-neck, Thomas held her to him and savoured that moment of tranquillity — let her children cause the havoc, let the unwed rule the day, for Thomas had what he had yearned for just there, upon his lap and against his precious manhood.

His hands trailed her, shifting past the known loosenings that had been prepared for his nature that often required an easier path to a commonly needed goal. As he touched her, his lips as heavy with want as if he were still a young man, Thomas hummed and purred like a fattened cat with still the cream of life to enjoy, his head bowing backwards to look at his wife who slipped from her confinements with fluidity; but if she wanted him to wax on her beauty, on her generous heat and sumptuous mood, then she would have it, his tongue unburdened of sonnets, his hands casting aside her bodice and skirts in waves of material till they pooled around them like coral or sea foam, exposing the breast of his love with kisses that gingerly went to caress each and every spare part he could find. “My desire has no bound, when alone with your lovely mound, would you make it any easier, for a poet to drown among a Boleyn, for it is but my original sin,” Thomas murmured — though, it was not his best work, as he rearranged himself to then lay her against the marital bed, his hands pushing aside her bound legs in an effort to have his own desire see its end, his fingers then making quick work of the bands that tied his undergarments together, a greedy grin spreading across his face in a moment’s emergence.

Above her, he trailed his hand up the side of her body till he caught the gentle height of her cheek. She would be known, she would be remembered — in some ways, she had what he desired. To be known in some manner, to one day become something of an icon, and though there was a jealous strain that throbbed within, in the same way blood coursed around his body, Thomas was happy to play second fiddle. It was a foolish endeavour to try and beat someone like that, someone who’s first husband would, too, remain larger than the name of Wyatt could ever contend with. And, though Thomas was forgiving and kind, he was no fool — or so, he liked to think as such. “Do you think our celebrations are thereafter over, that we are no longer the celebrated couple? Ah, perhaps we will be left in peace, but whenever will you be free of the call of your wondrous kin?” He mused, pushing her legs apart with a single nudge of one finger, a squeeze pressed against the inner warmth of her thigh as he drenched himself in her being.

  The world can understand well enough the process of perishing for unrequited love; perhaps few persons can enter into that going mad from a heart's solitary confinement. One may see the long-buried prisoner disinterred - the lovesick a maniac, an idiot; how Anne's senses once left her, how her desires, first inflamed, underwent namely agony. It is a subject too intricate for a simpleton's examination, too abstract for mass comprehension. When the world was younger than it is now, and moral trials were a deep mystery still; then perhaps, in a land far from theirs, there would have laid one, to soothe and comprehend all she felt, for Thomas Wyatt. His lashes were as dark as they were long, and they softened Ann with the penciling orbs they one guarded. Thomas knew Anne in her naked truth; he knew all her faults, and gladly took her home.Few were afforded love in their lifetime; fewer yet, could attest to having endured the sin of being loved then unloved - to being awarded the favour, of the one who had slipped away. Anne's love for Thomas Wyatt had been a war; the god damn fight of her life, and he started it. 

In the very beginning, before she had penetrated his motives, that un-comprehended sneer of Thomas' had made her heart and ache; by and by it would soon be suited to only warm the blood in her veins - his every action, sent added throbbing to her most domestic of body parts. . Whatever powers she possessed, divinely feminine or otherwise, would be deployed in her ambitious wish; his heart. Such endeavours had cost Anne previously; combat with Henry, was sharp for a time. She had been appalled to have lost his affection; he treated her so strangely. In his most unjust moments, Henry would insinuate she had deceived him; as if it was she, and not he, who feigned a false incapacity. And so Anne prayed her Thomas would never turn round suddenly, and accuse her of the most far-fetched and impossible transgressions; his affection was so sweet and dear, utterly incomparable. Half-quivering, half-mewling, Anne's knees sunk into the satin bedsheets; how handsome Thomas looked - purpose and his manhood, were roused fully. 

His hot kisses upon her neck were to at once, attract and enchain, to subdue and excite Anne; warm, retiring joy, was expressed in her animated visage. Her fingers, graceful in their aspects, exchanged passions across the broad, smooth, half-linen clad expanse of Thomas' back; he did not conquer her, merely to gain his mainly honour - power slept softly in his eyes. He retained the same youth and beauty of years past; when all endeavours to satisfy herself to his image, did not suffice. "I am as fond of your mind as I am your hands; your tongue, being a well used vehicle for each of your many talents. Do you doubt, I shall soon move you to make zealous proclamations - perhaps those regarding the triumphant nature, of the much fabled Boleyn womanhood?" His hair, so dark with a sunny sheen; romantic eyes that flashed love, his lips menacing beautifully, phrases of hot passion. She kissed him again, to observe the colouring of his cheek - and for every kiss, he would see how important she was. "You shall serve your punishment, Sir Wyatt, as her majesty's pleasure." Besotted and accustomed to his ways, Anne instructed her ladies to loosen her ties should her husband be in bed; better to later, have little to fumble with in a frenzied state. Not a blushing bride, nor a ghastly, matronly nun; Anne, flushed, bared before her husband, was something else entirely. 

[thdilettante]

It had been Dover Castle itself that had fired an inspiration within Thomas’ belly, so much so that he found himself wandering the grounds in the same way a groundskeeper would do when trying to find the difficult shrub causing a rot among the many. As he paced the outer walls, he looked out into the sea and how the waves went from the less appetizing tint of brown to a magnificent blue-green patched with sea foam in a way one would imagine Aphrodite rising from the scallop shell. Against the stonework he scribbled into his journals, his mind henceforth high above the clouds and far from the reality that tempered every other courtier’s brows. As his wife matched the temp of her son, the Spanish made haste and the lower nobility closed ranks, Thomas remained beyond the precipice. Let him wander on nature, indeed, but it would be Wyatt who would comfort or advise his family if they so needed it — even if, some thread of his person seemed to worry of his security in that infamous house of Tudor.

Upon the ramparts, where the King’s army stationed themselves en guard for any sort of trickery sent by the King of Spain, Thomas met the son — a handsome, broad Prince who seemingly adopted nothing of his mother whom Thomas had always wagered was quite plain, if not too sober for his attitude. Rising to his grossly tall height compared to the others bar his step-son, Thomas could not help but welcome Felipe into his inner sanctum where the birds passed over their heads in search for warmer climates. Wrapped up in velvet and furs which had long been a gift from the Dowager, the Earl of Allington bowed formally before inviting him with a single gesture. “I see you, too, have grown tired of the constant meetings. Though I am a faithful servant, and would do as much as I can if asked, I have always found happiness among the wilds. Will you join me before the eve grows too cold?”

@felipaed

[thdilettante]

If Thomas Wyatt was a certain type of man, perhaps he would’ve taken advantage of the situation of which he had found himself. As a consort to the King’s mother, as a husband to one of the boldest women to have walked the Earth’s green carpet, Thomas was one of the most powerful, prestigious men in the country — even if one overlooked his previous lifestyle of poetry, merriment and luxurious treatment of mistresses and an abandoned first wife. And yet, he seemed to release the very promise of certain fame and glory. He did not whisper into the ears of his stepchildren, nor did he seem to garner much affection from the other councillors who often fought to ignore Wyatt in any oncoming situation. After all, Thomas was no politician despite the late King’s manner to embolden the poet’s place in court as an ambassador to various foreign courts. What he enjoyed, thereafter, was the wine that flowed into his cup or the music that echoed along Dover Castle’s fine, looming halls. And though he would remain as a steadfast advisor to the King and his needs, Thomas lounged in the same way one would think a jester would — ignoring the confusing, tense communication that lay in wait between himself and his wife’s own stepchild, thee infamous Mary Tudor. 

In the feasting hall he kept to himself whilst provoking an audience with the coaxing call of his poetry, there he waxed lyrical upon the history of the castle and the romantic overture of Eleanor of Aquitaine — so, perhaps it was not solitude he was after but rather a quieter, less serious means of attentions. With his words he drew a vision of jealousy piqued with one ruling king and a lover in tow (for the idea of a menage á trois was not something that Thomas had been a stranger to, for had he not watched Anne’s own envy whenever Henry looked at another woman? When the very thought of either Mary Tudor or Jane Seymour came to taunt her?), leaning back in his chair like a slovenly Roman Emperor awaiting a fresh bunch of grapes before he met the eyes of one he knew by all but name. Rising to his feet, the crowd dispersing for the change of tune, the Earl of Allington then lowered himself to a respectful bow — for she was the daughter of Mary Tudor, a daughter of Spain and by blood right even a claimant of the throne itself. She was a beautiful thing, but much too young and too late for Thomas’ wandering eye. 

“Your Grace, I hope you find Dover to your taste. It is a far stretch from Spain, for that I am certain, but it is always a pleasure to diverge from the solemn routine of Hampton’s everyday routine, am I not right?” @lainfanta

[thdilettante]

Titian - A man with gloves (detail) 1520

Via Aaron Artem

[thdilettante]

Before, many moons ago, perhaps Thomas would’ve gladly considered himself a version of Adonis prancing through the fields of Elysium whenever Aphrodite thought to leave him by the wayside — quite like his relationship with his the great grandeur of Anne Boleyn, he would wait till called or visited upon, then launch himself to his lover in ways kept to the wilderness of a heathen imagination. Perhaps that was how he had survived the incoming years, but then, hadn’t he loved at least his lover who had blessed him with three children, if only to know them for varying lengths of time? Darrell had been understanding, or so, that he had thought — but were those moments merely spent to wait upon the arrival of his dear Anne? Was love as fickle as such a thought? He may have to find a moment to muse upon it when Anne was in some meeting or in the bathing rooms, leaving Thomas to act the scribe to his various wanderings that surrounded the long-standing and passionate love affair that had only since been consummated in more recent, tender years.

With his arm outstretched, he went to coax his wife forward with one crook of his finger, with her skirts upon his lap in a few easy movements that allowed him to embrace her with the same passion he would’ve taken as a younger man still free from the rumour of reputation or rumblings of treachery. If he had taken her back then, however, when visiting Hever with his father or going to her own patriarch with a letter in hand, there wouldn’t have been any chance of their survival. How long would it have taken for him to propose a pre-contract of matrimony to a woman like her? It would’ve taken minutes within one hour to have it all arranged before he made furious love to her with the Spanish mare on the throne instead. But she would have always seen her place upon the throne, with her whispers and ambition woven through the very fabric that made up the English court — and then, what? In this life they had been saved from the executioner’s block by the stubbornness of Boleyn horns, but if they had known one another carnally before, then they would’ve had no chance.

Alone with his wife, Thomas took her into his arms, his touch cascading down her back to loosen the ties that bound her skin in rich velvet and imported silks, his hands yet roaming as if he were still sailing towards some distant land yet unknown — his eyes greedy with desire as he kissed over her swan neck with the same vigour used before (well, perhaps if he had known the pleasure in knowing Anne so intimately he would’ve risked his head for her cunt, but that was for another time). “Of our love? Ah, do not tell me, you want for my words rather than my touch,” he teased, caring not for the servants who rushed from the room with unfinished linens or armfuls of firewood to be placed upon the hearth. “For I must disobey your wish, my most precious lover — undo your bonnet and skirts for me, and I would have you see stars,” Thomas wooed, his tongue slipping between his lips, his eyes darker than the night sky as the rest of the world remained around them in slow, sodden movements.

 Anne had occasion to think, as she stood looking at Thomas, whilst he knit his brow or protruding his lip over some exercise of his poetic qualities, that he had some points of resemblance to Adonis. She had known him to be suspicious; she had seen about him a tenderness - a softness, coming out like a warm air, drying out a heart of irritabilities. This wrought her one grand love - this man, born so strong and perfect, that he would laugh at death himself; in victory and faith, clung to his immortal spirit, forsaking his place at the block for twenty years. Thomas had proven his fidelity to Anne by the concentration of his grand energies, to an unselfish purpose - for those dear to Anne, he prized; for their union, he laid down vengeance, and took up a cross. Scarcely two years prior, Anne could not have believed life would her moments like those now passing; countless times, it had been her lot to watch apprehended sorrow close darkly in.

His countenance offered Anne an image more lucid, more interesting than ever; she felt a longing to trace it in a primitive devotedness. Thomas had become her Christian hero; under this character alone, Anne wished to view him. She had once declared, he was but reliable to her - what then, beyond friendship from him, could she dare to covet? They had enjoyed but a fraternal alliance; if only Anne had fucked him then, and made the privilege of innocence, nominal. Here came her opportunity to show her favour, as he spoke to her in a waking fantasy; erroneously displayed and reclined like a Roman Emperor upon their bed. He eyed her closely; he half-smiled, half coloured as he beckoned her. "Leave us." Gratified by Thomas' attentions, she was a lover, a bride, a wife - satisfied, she desired no witness, no cool, fastidious eyes of her ladies, upon them. Anne was betrayed in her sentiments as they swept from the room - all she felt, was known to them. 

Thomas' movements had the supple softness, the velvet grace of a kitten; his voice, clearer than the ring of crystal - as Anne took her sire's hands and rubbed them, bent her head for a kiss, there seemed to shine round her head, a halo of loving delight. She looked down upon him as a woman does, upon the love of her life. "Thomas, my Thomas; you have me. Do you long to bestow upon me the gift of your newest litanies, or does my caress, possess equal potency in your eyes?" His dark crown, his jetty hair, was tinged with many a reflex of crimson; every inch of Thomas answered the sun's animated kiss. He called to her in a tender voices, called her tender names; he had tasted of the sweet breath of dusk, and of the precious cigar, he would maintain between his lips at the conclusion of a meal. "Grant me a favour, my love; that in the sanctity of our wedded bed, we shall speak only of our love, of things that are sweet and god. I leave all dark forces, to be encountered outside this chamber." Her heart was grasped between his hands; they were never tyrannous, but always powerful.